Friday Night Bug Juice

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Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice, a Metro Detroit bar review site. We're here to give you a look into the dive bars of the Detroit area, so you can hopefully spend your cash wisely, and get a little insight into the lives of a couple of hapless irish louts.

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Welcome to the section of our site where you can learn everything you ever wanted to know and way too much more about the gang that works hard ruining their livers to bring you all you need to know about the dive bars of the Metro Detroit area!

ELIE'S

   One Friday night a few weeks ago, as I was eating dinner, I noticed a pair of rogue potatoes sitting on top of the microwave oven in our kitchen.  
   To be fair, I had sort of noticed them sitting up there for at least a week; the top of the microwave oven being the spot where I drop wallet, keys and money after each work day.  Notice them the same way you notice that your pants are getting a bit snug.  Notice, but don’t think of why or do anything about it.  
   Maybe it was their deterioration, my eventual awareness or just a lull in the dinnertime conversation, but I finally broached the subject of the rogue potatoes.
   “What’s with the potatoes?” I asked my wife Andrea nodding toward the top of the microwave oven.
   She and my son Jackson turned toward the rotting pair.  
   Andrea, who hates if I say anything that can be remotely construed as criticizing her home (not my home or our home, but her home; believe me men of the world, we are barely accepted gas passing visitors), glanced at the spuds and turned to me in mock horror.
   “Oh my God, I threw those potatoes out over a week ago.  How could they be back, sitting in plain view on top of the microwave oven?”  This was followed by a few notes of the opening theme to The Twilight Zone.  She looked at me with mouth agape to hammer home her point:  
   If you see rotting potatoes and they bother you, throw them away instead of asking me about them or waiting for me to take care of them.
    Though her message was subtle, I got it.  I would handle them while Jack and I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.  When Wife left the area, I did toss out one of the offenders.  However, I grabbed his partner in rot, alerted Jackson to follow me and stealthily crept into the master bedroom.  I peeled (pun intended), back the covers and gently placed the remaining potato on Andrea’s pillow.  I put back the covers, made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles and crept out of the room.  Jack approved.
   This took place on the Friday night before my birthday, meaning I would be out boozing with Anthony when the covers were peeled back and the horror of the Potato That Would Not Die was discovered.
   Cue the dimly lit bedroom, shortly after midnight, a yawning Andrea weary from a day of husband and son, takes back the covers on her side of the bed.  She sees the brown demon on her pillow, cries out in horror and reflectively jumps away from the bed.
   Cue a husband arriving home after last call on what was now his birthday, a dish of ice cream in hand, ready to hit the sofa and check out Sports Center.  This is what I found staring me in the eye from the comfort of my sofa. 

     
   

   If I tell you that this portrait in potato is dead on, believe it.  From the ever present Who t-shirt to the skin hooded eyes to the outdated mustache, it’s all there.  There is even a mark on the top right hand side of the spud which corresponds to the mole I have on the top right side of my head (this will turn out to be a lot less funny if the spot on my head turns out to be cancerous and I begin to rot like the spud).
   And speaking of two rotting spuds that don’t belong, Tony and I have been frequenting Elie’s in downtown Birmingham lately.
   We found this little joint sheerly out of desperation, our beloved Edison’s having fallen short the past few weeks.  After a disappointing night at Edison’s, it was either Elie’s, The Corner in The Townsend Hotel or go home early.  Going home early...out of the question, narrowing our choice to Elie’s or The Corner.  In my mind, the only place in the Detroit area deserving the moniker “The Corner” was at Michigan and Trumbull and was also known as Tiger Stadium.  On to Elie’s.
   For a tavern in downtown Birmingham on Pierce Street just south of Maple, this little pub is surprisingly user friendly.  Plenty of street or deck parking (a warning about the deck parking: it is sometimes attendant-less and you will have to pay the fee with a credit card).  The front of the building is typical bar.  Tables and chairs strewn about, a window view of the goings on in trendy Birmingham, and a place to stand against the wall facing the wooden bar.  
   The back of the space is more restaurant than pub.  The only patron I have seen in this area during our late night crawls is former Piston Rick Mahorn.   For all I know, it is forbidden to sit back there, but who in their right mind would say anything to #44.  His head is the size of a fucking stove.  Tony and I spent about an hour watching him out of the corner of our eye, reminiscing about what a hard ass he and the rest of The Bad Boys were.  We talked about going over or buying him a drink, but chickened out in the end (we were afraid he might not like white people).
   There is really nothing to do in Elie’s except drink, listen to a surprisingly good soundtrack and be seen.
   First, the drinking.  No cover charge.  Two beers will set you back a modest $8.50, reasonable in this high price district.  It can be a chore getting a drink as nobody works the floor, meaning you have to split the crowd standing at the bar and get the hardworking bartender’s attention.  It can be done, but you will piss somebody off.  Good, it’s fun pissing off the privileged.
   Next, the music.  It is played at a level that promotes conversation.  It is also surprisingly varied and appealing to a rock snob like myself.  I heard the Dead Kennedys “Let’s Kill the Landlord”.  In Birmingham.  Surprising.  There is no dance floor and therefore no dancing (though I would like to see someone try to get their groove on to the Dead Kennedy’s).
   Finally, the crowd.  It is exactly what you might expect in Birmingham, and includes some of the same faces seen at Edison’s.  The first night that we drank at Elie’s, a patron from Edison’s that Tony dubbed Sir Ian Gere, a facial mash-up of Sir Ian McKellan and Richard Gere, welcomed us by saying, “What took you so long?”  
   Indeed.  
   We like the place in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that we so obviously do not fit in.  Apparently, there is an aura one has when downriver is your home.  You have non-meticulously groomed facial hair.  You sport t-shirts, jeans priced under $40, and plunk hats on your balding domes.  You treat those working the bar with respect and tip accordingly.  You do not sport a faux-hawk, wear too tight Affliction shirts or treat the people serving you like servants.  
   This is not to say that Tony and I have not enjoyed checking out the haughty in Elie’s.  We do.  But we have had a few odd glances and one memorable run in with two broads that ended with them calling us fucking smart asses.  I sensed that they were used to guys slobbering all over them and got pissy when Tony and I made it obvious we weren’t having it.  
   We like checking out the crowd.  We also like that we are different, better.  Downriver.
   Go to Elie’s for a reasonable boozing, good tunes and great people watching.  Just don’t be a douche.

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